“Yes!” I smiled at her. “I think that’s the beginning of a beautiful signature tin symbol! Now you just have to draw it about five thousand more times, until your hand forms the movement all on its own, quickly and smoothly. Without any pause for thought.”
She considered that for a second, and I could see how intimidating the idea must have been. But then she hunched over her slate again and got to work.
“Do you mind if I ask what province you’re from?” I said, watching as she painstakingly drew a long row of nearly identical tin symbols.
“I’m from Reachan,” she said. “The southernmost province of Unified Eria.”
“I know it!” I couldn’t resist another smile. “I mean, I’ve never been there.” That I could recall. “But when I was a kid, my father did some work on the Sakros of Echoes. He consulted on the design of the Sakros of Whispers as well, in Parlaan. He’s a stonemason.”
Varrah’s eyes widened. “What a strange, strange association gifted to us from the cosmic chaos! It’s entirely possible that I met your father on the street when I was a child!”
“You might have!” I agreed. “He loved Reachan. He came home raving about this little fried donut he used to buy from street vendors. It was evidently tossed in fine-ground sugar seasoned with a local spice, a bit like anise. My stepfather has been trying to replicate that morsel, based on nothing but my father’s aging recollection of it, for the better part of a decade.”
At least, he had been, last I could remember.
Varrah’s gaze went distant. Nostalgic. “Kokos,” she whispered, the two tones of her voice diverging distinctly on the longOsounds. “I love them filled with pear jam, right out of the fryer.”
“My father insists they’re delicious. He loved everything about your land.”
He’d carried on about the architecture of Unified Eria, where all of the public buildings were designed to amplify or obscure a specific tone or to maximize a specific facet of auditory perception. And in addition to the food, he’d been fascinated by an inherited tendency of the local population to be born with some form of heterochromia. About half of the populace, he’d said.
Varrah’s voice, though. That wasn’t inherited.
“Do they practice much alchemy in Reachan? Or in any of the provinces?”
She made an eerily multitonal amused sound, deep in her throat, then suddenly looked embarrassed by the impulse. She shook her head. “The only arcane study permitted in most of the Unified Eria is auriculia. We call it the Craft.” She frowned, considering. “That’s the onlyreallyunifying cultural aspect of the provinces.”
My father had said something similar—that their Craft was the only thing truly bonding the Eria provinces, despite the conflict between provincial dynasts.
And that Craft didn’t solely involve their altered voices. The ears were modified, too, though there was no visible scarring for that procedure.
I knew better than to ask Varrah about her voice. About what the procedure had done to—or for?—her ears. Natives of the unified provinces were not permitted to divulge such information to outsiders. And even if she were allowed to speak of it, asking would be rude.
“So, how did you wind up at the Alchemary?” I asked instead.
“My cousin married a vintner from Aethermere,” she said as she turned back to her scythes. “I spent my eighteenth year with her, to learn winemaking in the local tradition, and when the Alchemary recruiter came to town, testing alchemical potential, I…took the assessment.” She glanced up from her slate. “I suppose I scored well, because he recorded my information and said that if I were interested, I could pursue an education at one of the greatest schools in all the world.” Her gaze intensified. “Even in Unified Eria, we know of this place.”
Our academy had long ago attained global renown, but according to my father, in many places, that fame was more of an infamy. Including in the unified provinces.
“And your parents allowed you to attend?”
“No.” Varrah looked up at me, her gaze…haunted. “They forbade it, and when I enrolled without their blessing…I was disowned. I am no longer permitted within the borders of Reachan.”
“Oh, Varrah,” I whispered, fighting to breathe past a sudden sharp ache in my chest. “I’m so very sorry!”
She only shrugged. “My cousin and her husband have agreed to take me in during the winter break. She will try to broker a reconciliation with my mother, who might then work slowly on my father.”
I found myself at an utter loss for words.
“Very well. That’s enough practice for today,” Professor Robards said, and I looked up to find him standing behind his podium. “Your signature notation essays are due on Monday, and if you find extra time over the weekend, aim for five hundred repetitions per day, per symbol, on your slates. Signature notation does not develop withoutextensivepractice!”
The class groaned, and I stood back as they gathered their things and tromped down the risers, headed for the door.
“She seems to have taken to you,” Professor Robards said, glancing at Varrah’s empty seat once the classroom had emptied. “Well done.”
I held my tongue for a moment while I gathered my things, then I faced him as I settled the strap of my satchel over my shoulder. “If I may ask…why do you sound surprised by that?”
“I mean no offense,” he assured me. “It’s only that I requested you as my teaching assistant because I knew you would be the most careful and accurate grader out of your cohort. I’m pleasantly surprised to see that you’re good with the students as well.”
